


Shall I miss the selkies and the seals?

by hafital



Category: Possession - A. S. Byatt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-26
Updated: 2007-12-26
Packaged: 2017-10-28 04:06:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafital/pseuds/hafital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the morning that nearly undid him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall I miss the selkies and the seals?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tree in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge

~~~

 _she feels the chill of the water numb her feet._

Blanche was always right.

You must understand that I loved Blanche. On the day I met her, the wind had given her color, and her hat had blown away while she chased it. I was charmed by the breathless catch as she spoke and how she looked at me, how she lowered her eyes and only raised them when I smiled.

The one thing I recall most clearly was the paint of light on Blanche's pale skin, dusky and thin, as if even a gentle kiss could break the skin apart. But I had to coax her to undress in the light. It always had to be in the dark. And with the dark, some of the magic left.

"Why do you leave?" The only light in the room came from the moon slipping in between the drapes.

"But, I am right here."

"No," she said. "You know I do not mean physically, although there I do not think I satisfy... Would you like me to say it plainly? Or should I lie?"

I could not answer her. Even though it was dark, I knew she had her eyes lowered and that she clutched at the bedclothes. I pushed her down while pulling her nightgown up, and kissed her stomach so that I could hear her sharp inhale.

She was right. It did not satisfy, no matter the peaks of pleasure I wrung from her lips and those she wrung from mine.

It was not her fault. I beg you not to think such. The blame is entirely mine.

~~~

He watched his Ellen sit at her writing table. It must be her weekly letter to her sister. Ash could think of no other person who could claim Ellen's attention to such a degree beside himself.

The lies she must tell. Ellen hid it well, but more than once Ash had seen the slide of a tear run down her cheek while she sat at that table and wrote her letter. It caused a peculiar kind of pain in him, in the center of his chest, as if he might not get air enough to breathe. It caused his hand to shake, and his vision to darken.

He had tried again the night before, although he knew it was disgusting to her. But he hadn't stopped himself from entering her chambers, only subsisting when she turned her head to bury it in a pillow. Even with all his gentleness, with all his care, she had retreated to the farthest reach of the bed, pale with fright. And so he had left her for his own cold bed and indulged in dreams of her.

Ellen spoke from her table, not turning to face him, her head bowed. Ash noticed she had stopped writing, but the letter was still unfinished.

"You are the most understanding of husbands. You must hate me."

He almost could not answer, for the pain in chest was sharp. It dug deep and stole his breathe. "Please do not say that. "

"If I do not say it, then I think it." She turned to him, flushed, her voice low, meeting his gaze -- she smiled weakly -- before returning to her letter. "I will have your tea brought up whenever you wish."

No one could doubt his devotion to his wife or her devotion in return. It went well beyond simple love. They were much admired. But of course, it was all lies, as much as it was truth.

He stood, and walked across the room to bend and brush his lips to the nape of her neck. Any observer would not have noticed how she held her breath, but he did.

 _o'er sunlit plains the seagulls cry  
and wait, but not for me_

~~~

 _there is a certain pleasure in the salt air that kisses the inside of my wrist.._

He walks ahead of me and the wind ruffles his hair. He is stunning. I should wish for Blanche's gift so that I could paint his profile, but I suspect it will haunt me regardless.

I laugh at his uneven tumble among the rocks. The closer we are to the light play along the dimpled surface, the sooner I feel the spray of water on my cheek and long to feel his tongue lap at my skin again.

~~~

It is the morning that nearly undid him. Not the first kiss, nor the first plunge into her depths that left a spot of blood on the sheet to wrench his heart, not the weight of her breast in his hand coupled with the coupling. No, none of that. It was the morning, and her hair in his face, and the soft inhalation of a yawn.

He woke to Christabel at his side, in his arms, her rear nestled against him, inviting his hand, inviting his fingers to dip into her wet depths. Their final love making the night before had removed her nightshirt, and her pale back was open to his view.

He must breathe in the scent of her. Bury his nose into the nape of her neck, a careful hand down her side to feel her shiver and stir.

She turned and looked at him.

He opened his mouth to speak, to greet her, but she covered his lips with her own.

Ah. They were not to speak. Not yet.

She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, pausing only a moment before sinking down, gasping softly. He thrust up, gripping her thighs hard enough to indent her flesh. Above him, her breasts swung, her hair tumbled down in waves of gold. She threw her head back and rode him and rode him and rode him.

When she was near, she lowered to capture his mouth, to suck on his lips.

He flipped her over, raising her hands over her head, and drove in at a speed that left him breathless and wanting more. Wanting so much that he became blind in the ecstasy of his release.

She arched her back, her mouth open but silent, convulsing around him.

He must cry. He must and did so, weeping as he collapsed on top. She trailed her fingers along the knobs of his back, and still he wept.

And still he remained buried within her. He hardened again and thrust into her again.

"I burn for you, I love you, you are everything." He spoke with lips and teeth and tongue.

"Yes."

 _what delight can be met with that is not stolen  
what sin can be dismissed which does not burn_

~~~

 _I long for the velvet mosses of wet stone, and for the sigh of wind through branches_

There is no one about.

We cannot be certain of our privacy, but I am unable to feel concern. The time for concern - for scruples or propriety - fled the moment I agreed to accompany him here, to this wonderland, this haven of bliss, of dancing light.

I call him. "Randolph." His name falls with unease from my lips, as if it had always been there but not spoken and was now uncertain of the liberty. It wanted confinement.

He turns and watches me approach him, holding out his hand for my support. It is my turn to walk uneven among the rocks, to see him smile at me.

I cannot deny the effect of his person upon my soul. I wish. I wish.

I wish it were not so, but it is. I want him, and have no wish to deny it, whatever the pain I knew must follow. Blanche, oh Blanche. What have I done?

He looks at me. "What is it?" And follows my gaze to the waterfall. He should have said no, indecent as it was. He should have denied me, and himself. But he does neither. Instead he takes my hand and we retreat behind the curtain of water.

Despite the danger of discovery, he strips slowly. Oh, the poems I could write about the pucker of cold flesh. Poems I would never know.

With patience and care, he unhooks my corset and takes a breast into his mouth. I gasp aloud and wrap my hand around his stiffness. I crave its hardness in my mouth and kneel to swallow it. He grunts. He pushes me against the wet rocks, a leg hooked over an arm, and I take him willingly inside.

It does not take long, for either of us.

~~~

The puff of smoke from the train drew his eye. Christabel stood close enough for him to smell the rose water on her skin, but distant enough that his palms itched with the need to hold her.

She would not look at him.

He would not ask her to.

But it pained him. And he felt a brute, callous, to have taken such pleasure though it may have been freely given. He thought of Ellen briefly, but Christabel turned and looked at him and the memory of Ellen's face vanished in the brightness of Christabel's hair.

The train pulled in. He offered his ungloved hand and she took it: the slide of skin on skin.

It was the last time they touched.

 _Your taste remains on my lips. I cannot  
lose you though I know I already have._

~~~

 _Shall I miss the selkies and the seals? Or is it only the promise of them, in the distance?_


End file.
